It was past midnight. The world outside his window had quieted into the deep hush of the city’s slumber, punctuated only by the occasional honk or the far-off bark of a stray dog. Aarav sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, the blue light illuminating his tired face.
The message he typed was short. Raw.
"Can’t sleep again. It’s been months. I still hear her voice every time I close my eyes. I don’t know how to be okay."
He stared at it for a moment, thumb hovering. Then he pressed send.
Aarav didn’t realize it until the screen blinked confirmation: Sent to: Mom
His chest tightened. He had never removed her contact. It was muscle memory—typing the first letters and selecting the familiar name. He tried to unsend it, but it was a regular text, not an app message. The damage was done. Or so he thought.
He sighed and tossed the phone aside, collapsing into the silence that had become too loud in recent months.
The Next Morning
His phone buzzed. Groggily, Aarav picked it up, expecting a bank message or spam.
Unknown Number:
"Hello dear. I think you may have sent this by mistake. I’m not who it was meant for, but... I hope you’re okay. I’m here if you want to talk."
Aarav stared. The words were soft, careful. Not probing. Not pitying.
He hesitated before replying.
Aarav:
"Sorry, wrong number. I meant to send that to someone else."
Unknown:
"No problem at all. I didn’t want to ignore it, just in case you needed a kind voice. I’m Meera, by the way. I have a few gray hairs, two grown-up kids, 3 grandkids, and a dog who thinks he owns the house."
He surprised himself by smiling.
Aarav:
"Nice to meet you, Meera aunty. I’m Aarav. Twenty-seven. No kids. No dog. Just a very clingy plant."
He had a genuine smile on his face almost after 6 months, after that fateful evening. He thanked her in his thoughts and moved on with his daily routine.
A few days passed, and life slowly picked up its pace around him. The ache remained, tucked quietly beneath the surface. His therapy sessions offered a sliver of relief—small steps toward healing, even if the pain hadn't fully loosened its grip.
About a week later, as he got ready for work and packed his lunch, a soft notification chimed from his phone. He glanced over, casually at first—but the moment he saw the screen, a quiet warmth lit up his eyes.
Meera Aunty:
"Hey. Just checking in. How are you doing, son?
He stared at her message for a long while before replying.
Aarav:
"Yesterday was Mom’s birthday. I tried baking her favourite cake. It collapsed. Like me.”
Her reply came instantly.
Meera Aunty:
"Grief does that. Collapses you in the middle of ordinary things. You’re doing better than you think, dear."
Then came another one.
“Was the cake really that bad?”
Aarav:
" :D :D oh yes. It was. Do you bake cakes?”
They chatted as Aarav moved through his day, replying between tasks, a smile often tugging at his lips amid the busyness.
A couple of months passed by.
What started with accidental texts had now evolved into a strange comfort. Aarav didn’t speak much to friends anymore about this topic. They were his good friends and their presence comforted him, but they didn’t know what to say around the word "loss." But Meera aunty did. She never rushed to fix anything. She just listened.
"Why do you care so much?" he asked one evening on text.
The reply came after a pause.
"Because once, many years ago, someone did that for me too. And because every boy deserves a mother figure who answers, even when she wasn't meant to."
His eyes stung.
A few months later.
On a cool October evening, his phone lit up again.
Meera Aunty:
"We’re hosting our family Diwali party next weekend. Loud, chaotic, full of food and laughter. You’re welcome to come. No pressure, of course."
Aarav stared at the message. His Diwalis had become silent shadows since his mother passed away. His father was in US with his elder sister. They called him too but he didn’t want to travel.
He almost replied “No, thank you,” but instead typed:
"Would love to. What should I bring?"
Meera Aunty:
"Just yourself. But if your clingy plant wants to tag along, we won’t say no.”
Diwali Evening
The door to Meera aunty’ s home opened to warm lights, the aroma of cardamom and fried sweets, and the sound of laughter. Her home was everything Aarav’s apartment wasn’t—lived in, warm, loud in the best ways.
She greeted him in a rust-colored saree, her silver hair tied in a loose bun, arms stretched for a hug. He froze for a second, then stepped into the embrace.
"This," she whispered, "is what your mom would’ve wanted. You to find light again."
Her children welcomed him like an old friend. The grandkids dragged him into rangoli-making. The food was endless. The laughter healing.
And when the fireworks lit up the night sky, Aarav quietly stepped out onto the balcony. Meera aunty joined him with two cups of chai.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
She looked at him with eyes that had weathered many storms. “You sent a message to the wrong number, Aarav. But maybe, just maybe, the universe sent it to the right heart.”
Three Months Later
Therapy was still hard. The pain hadn't vanished. But it had softened.
He and Meera aunty messaged often now, and the bond had settled into something steady.
One day, he sent her a picture of a cake.
Aarav:
"Didn’t collapse this time. Used your recipe. Made it for Mom’s death anniversary. Ate a slice. Left one by her photo."
Meera Aunty:
"She would’ve been so proud. I am too."
One Year Later
Diwali returned, and so did Aarav—this time with boxes of sweets and a new kurta Meera helped pick online.
During dinner, one of Meera Aunty’ s grandkids asked, “Are you my new uncle?”
Everyone laughed. Meera Aunty squeezed his hand.
“I think,” she said, “he’s family in all the ways that matter.”
Aarav smiled. He still missed his mother every day. But somehow, in the broken pieces, he had found something unexpected—a quiet reminder that healing doesn’t always arrive through therapy rooms.
Sometimes, it walks in through the wrong message—and stays.
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